


If Your Well is Empty (not a thing will prevent me)

by mosylu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, all these people are so messed up, it's a good thing they have each other, late Season 1, needed: Superhero therapist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosylu/pseuds/mosylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cisco's always been there for Caitlin when she needed him. She's more than willing to return the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Your Well is Empty (not a thing will prevent me)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Tumblr prompt from bettername2come: "things you said when you thought i was asleep"
> 
> The first part takes place right after the particle accelerator explosion, and the second part late in S1. I’m not willing to admit how many times I’ve listened to “Gone Gone Gone” in the last two days, but it’s certainly a non-zero number.

When she opened the door, he immediately asked, “Have you slept at all?”

“What do you think?” she snapped, but she let him in.

He didn’t try to hug her. The bite in her voice told him it was a bad idea. When a woman had seen her fiance die in front of her and the whole city was howling for the blood of anybody who worked at Star Labs, you could kind of forgive her for being in a semi-perpetual bad mood.

Caitlin’s moods fluctuated between grey apathy and snarling rage these days, but she always let him in, and he always kept coming back. He’d had to lay down the law about snarling at _him_ (“you can’t do that, I get that you’re in pain, but I don’t deserve that kind of treatment”), and she’d called him the next day, saying quietly, “I’m sorry,” and he’d said, “I know. Chinese?”

In spite of the food he brought over every day, she wasn’t eating, either. Her fridge was full of leftovers with, at best, a bite or two consumed. He still kept trying, throwing things away when they got too moldy.

“I brought burritos,” he said and set the bag on the coffee table. He kept one monster cup, full of orange soda, and held out the other, full of iced tea with exactly two lemon slices.

She took it. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and plopped on the couch, setting the drink on the end table without taking a sip. But at least it was within reach.

“Awright. Netflix. What are we watching?”

“I don’t care.”

“Awesome, my pick! Let’s stick with the theme, shall we? Today we’re gonna improve your Spanish, _and_ teach you how to conduct yourself in a catfight. Those are, like, resume skills right there.”

“Telenovelas?”

“Believe it.”

She rolled her eyes.

A few minutes in, her ramrod posture softened, and she curved into the back of the couch, frowning at the TV, trying to work out what was happening. He ate his burrito, occasionally filling her in on the details - “okay, so that guy? Is her son. Except he’s not her son, he got switched at birth because her awful shitbag husband wanted a boy and not a girl, because machismo and inheritance and whatever.” He grabbed the cup of guacamole and scooped some up on a chip, chomping down. “So her real kid is the girlfriend, who his mom only introduced him to because she knew that was her real kid.”

“There’s something kind of warped about that,” she said slowly. “But I can’t exactly figure out what it is.”

“Right? Bask in the _loco_ , it gets better.” He left the guacamole on his knee and kept eating his burrito.

Some minutes later, after the devious mama had poked holes in all of the condoms in her son’s apartment, her hand snuck out and steathily removed the guacamole cup from his knee.

He acted like he hadn’t even noticed.

After a few more minutes, she stuck one finger in the cup, scooped out some guacamole, and carried it to her mouth.

He about punched the air.

She settled against his shoulder, slowly eating guacamole off her finger.

When the poor girlfriend gasped over her positive pregnancy test and the credits rolled, he checked her face. Her un-mascaraed lashes rested against the bruised-looking bags under her eyes. Her mouth was soft and slack, the lips all chapped and pale. The guacamole had been licked clean.

He shifted his arm until it was around her shoulders. She sighed and settled herself more comfortably into his side.

He pressed his lips to her hairline and whispered, “You’re going to get through this. You’re stronger than this. I believe in you.”

* * *

When he opened the door, she said, “Are you really not sleeping?”

“That was kind of for effect,” he said.

“Except that you keep saying it. And it sounds like the truth.”

He rubbed his eyebrow, wandering off into his apartment. “Okay, yeah, maybe a little insomnia.”

She strode into his kitchen and scowled at the perking coffeemaker, and the trash can full of Jitters cups, and the line of Mountain Dew cans alongside the sink. “That,” she said sternly, “is not helping.”

“I gotta stay awake during the day somehow.”

“And how far into the afternoon do you consume caffeine?”

“Ummm, how exactly are you defining afternoon? Like, is ten o'clock still the afternoon?”

“Cisco!”

“Look, I have nightmares sometimes and sometimes, you know, I’d just rather not sleep.”

“You need sleep. Long-term sleep deprivation carries very serious health risks. You’ll start hallucinating.”

“Yaaaay,” he said. “Caitlin, I get sleep.”

“How much?”

“A few hours? I pass out.”

“That’s not a workable solution either. Does anything help?”

“Not sleeping?”

“Not an option.” She turned off the coffeemaker and dumped the half-pot down the sink, then threw the grounds after it.

He scowled at her. “God, don’t nag.”

“I will nag,” she growled, following him into the living room, “because you look terrible. And just because you said that to me, I’m picking the movie.”

“Aw c'mon.”

“Nope. My turn.”

“You gonna pick some boring-ass documentary?”

“They’re very educational.” She grabbed the remote from him and flipped through the options.

He pouted on the couch. “Oh my god! Are we seriously watching the history of the didgideroo?”

“Fascinating,” she said, and stuck the remote in her bra because she knew he’d never go after it there.

He started out burrowed into the corner of the couch, glaring at the screen. He sighed and played with his phone for awhile, some weird Japanese cat game. Then he stretched out, curling his toes in between two of the cushions, and rested his head on the back of the couch.

Good.

At the soft whimper, she looked over. His face was screwed up as if in pain, but his eyes were closed.

“Cisco,” she said.

“No,” he said. “No. Don’t, please - ”

She scooted across the cushions and tentatively put her hand on his arm. Under her touch, his muscles felt like stone.

No wonder he didn’t want to sleep. “Shhh,” she said, feeling guilty. “It’s okay. It’s a dream.”

“I don’t want - it hurts, it hurts - ”

She scooted closer and put her arms around his waist. “It’s a dream, Cisco, it’s not real, it didn’t happen, it never happened - ” Her eyes pricked with tears.

“No - ” His hand clenched in her dress, crumpling the cloth. His fingertips bit into her thigh. “Don’t - ”

She rubbed his shoulders. “Shhh,” she breathed. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shhhh.”

He pressed his face into her shoulder and mumbled her name. “Not her. Not her.”

“I’m here. I’m okay. You’re okay.”

He sighed.

She held him while the tension slowly, slowly leached from his body, until he drooped against her, young-looking in his sleep.

There had to be something. Some sleeping pill with the minimum of hangover. He needed sleep, and he needed to not dream. She’d start researching it tomorrow.

She touched his face, smoothing his hair back. Leaning over, she pressed her lips to his forehead. “You will get through this. You’re stronger than this. I believe in you.”

FINIS


End file.
